Through Autumn's Golden Gown
by Wysawyg
Summary: An ordinary black dog hunt turns problematic when Dean disappears halfway through. Wee!Chester fic. Some Hurt!Dean and Worried!Everyone Else. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Through Autumn's Golden Gown

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Disclaimer: **Sam, Dean, their Dad, Bobby, Caleb and Pastor Jim all belong to Kripke and the CW.

**Summary: **An ordinary black dog hunt turns problematic when Dean disappears half-way through. Wee!Chester fic. Some Hurt!Dean and Worried!Everyone Else.

**Author's Notes:**

The title of this story comes from a song in Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds.

I know I use the word 'Autumn' when the common Americanisation is 'Fall' however I personally think 'Autumn' and 'Autumnal' are two of the most beautiful words in the English language so I feel no guilt in encouraging their use.

The first draft of this story was written in one go over two days of Cambridge folk festival so if you happened to be there and saw a woman constantly scribbling away at her notepad behind the yellow sunflower... this is what I was writing. (I'm not kidding about the constant writing, three different people stopped to ask what I was writing.)

This is NOT a character death story. The only things to die in this story are two dogs: one was already dead and the other deserved it.

Many thanks to TraSan who took time out of her own amazing writing and duck-torturing to make this story better than it would have been.

Apologies to everyone that has given me feedback for other stories. I know I'm way behind on replying. Just returned from a fortnight in Corfu and I haven't slept for around forty hours. As soon as I'm less sleep-loopy, I promise I will be replying to each and every comment that I can.

Now without further crazy ramblings on an author...

---

Most people that had lived the kind of itinerate life that Sam Winchester had would have given up on having any form of constancy. Sam had chosen to cling to those small things he could get: That November the second was sacred, that Dean would take any excuse to polish the weapons or annoy his little brother – often both at the same time, that his Dad and Dean would head off to hunts and finally that they'd always, always come back.

Sam was nine years old when Dean broke that rule. It was a blustery autumn evening and Sam had been left alone in the pokey apartment that had been home for the past month. It smelt of mould, the bathroom flooded every time anyone used the shower and the freezer was so frosted over that even all three Winchesters throwing their bodyweight backwards while gripping the handle had failed to open it. It was the closest Sam had ever come to a home.

His dad and brother had found a black dog to hunt in the forest and Dean had been bouncing off the ceiling with excitement. The only way their father had got Dean to settle was by threatening the thirteen year old with being left behind.

It'd been six hours since the pair walked out the front door when John slumped through the apartment door alone. The subdued click of the door closing awoke Sam from where he'd fallen asleep, curled under a blanket on the couch. "Where's Dean?" He asked, eyes darting frantically in the unlit apartment in case Dean was hiding in the shadows.

"Pack up your stuff," His dad's gruff voice stated. "You're going to Pastor Jim's."

"Dad," Sam felt the first edge of panic fluttering in his stomach. "Dad, where's Dean?"

"I said pack up your stuff!" John barked with what Sam first thought was anger but quickly realised was fear.

Sam slipped off the couch and padded towards his father, "Daddy…" John bent down and swept Sam into a tight hug, one rough hand cupping the back of his head, fingers tangling in the long hair. "Daddy, where's Dean?"

"He's… I… I lost him. Bobby's on his way and we'll find him, Sammy. I swear to god." His father made a noise halfway to a choked off sob and Sam threw his arms around his father's neck and clung as tight as he knew how. "Come on, Sammy. We need to drop you off at Jim's before Bobby gets here."

"I want to help, Dad," Sam protested.

"No, Sammy," His father's voice cut off any argument Sam was going to make before it could begin. "I need to know that you are safe. I need to know one of you is safe!"

"Dad…" Sam opened his mouth to plead.

"No!" His father cut him off once again, soothing the words by tugging Sam close to him again. "I can't worry about both of you. I just can't. Please, Sammy, don't…"

Sam had no argument to that so he slid from his father's grip and walked into the small bedroom. He grabbed his duffle from beneath the bed and began to stow away his clothes, the action seeming obscenely wrong without Dean there. The solid footsteps announced his father following him into the room. "What happened, Dad?"

John sat down on Dean's empty bed and sunk his chin into his hands. He spoke to the grubby carpet. "We picked up the black dog trail quickly but it split. I went left, Dean went right. He knew to radio in if he found anything or every five minutes. It was all going to plan for twenty minutes though there were no clearer sign of which way the dog went. Then the twenty five call-in came with no word from Dean."

Sam's dad stood then and surged out of the room and over to the kitchenette. Sam heard the tell-tale unscrewing of a whiskey bottle then footsteps as he returned, a small amber measure slopping at the bottom of the glass, vanishing down his father's throat in one gulp.

Suitably fortified, John continued. "I waited 'til twenty six past then went towards where Dean should've been, had to cut through the forest." His words only told half the story, the branch-inflicted slices against cheek and brow filling in the rest. "I found the path and tracked it up and down. I scoured the brush but there was no sign of your brother. I searched as long as I could, Sammy, I promise. In the end I had to head back to the Impala and call up Bobby, need more than one pair of eyes for this. He'll be here tomorrow afternoon and we'll strip the forest down twig by twig."

Sam put the last of his clothes into the bag along with one of Dean's t-shirts and zipped it up, looking up to his father.

John took the bag off Sam and hoisted it onto his shoulder, looking one twitch from hoisting Sam up too but instead turning and walking out to the car with Sam trailing his bootsteps. Sam slid into the backseat without thinking and throughout the journey he didn't mention how often his dad's eyes drifted from the road to the empty shotgun seat. The journey was made in silences accompanied by the twanky guitar coming from the cassette player.

The journey took six hours and left them knocking on Pastor Jim's door just as morning lit over the horizon. Pastor Jim took one look at the diminished Winchester family and ushered them inside. Sam was deposited in his usual room and couldn't stop his exhausted body curling up in the bed that was usually Dean's. When Pastor Jim poked his head in minutes later, Sam was already fast asleep.

---

When John Winchester returned to his apartment, the sky a banner blaze of midday sun, he tried to sleep. Despite the foggy haze smudging his mind, he couldn't find any respite. He twisted restlessly for an hour before the spluttering purr of an engine announced Bobby's arrival. He stood up off the bed and straightened the covers, leaving the boys' beds alone just as they'd last slept in them.

He opened the door seconds before Bobby's hand hit it. "Ya look like shit," came Bobby's unconventional greeting, a statement especially condemning when the other hunter considered unkempt to be a valid fashion choice.

"Thanks," John replied in a gruff voice. "You ready to head out?"

Bobby scowled, "Have you had any sleep?" John's answering scowl was a sufficient response. "Fine but you killing yourself ain't gonna do your remaining boy much good."

"I have two boys," John snapped, anger uncoiling.

"If you do, we'll find him," Bobby replied, a too calm reply which only served to cause a surge of John's barely held-in anger.

"Dean's fine. He's just holed up away from the dog. Daylights come and he'll be out looking for me." John had never been a proponent of denial but he was beginning to see its advantages.

Apparently Bobby wasn't willing to grant such leeway. "John, I'm fond of your boy, honest to god you know I am, but you need to deal with the fact we're more likely to find Dean's body than Dean. It was a cold night, there's a black dog about and Dean's only twelve." Only the slightest hitch in Bobby's voice betrayed his own emotions.

"Thirteen," John corrected automatically though it barely served to help his case. "And he's a Winchester, we don't die easy."

"Your wife proves otherwise," Bobby replied and barely were the words out than John launched a fist square into the grizzled hunter's jaw. Bobby's head snapped back but he just rubbed at the spot and grinned, "That's better."

"You are fucking nuts," John bit out, tempted to punch the other hunter again just on principle.

"Hunter, aren't I?" Bobby replied. "Better a bruise than you wallowing in self-pity."

"I wasn't wallowing."

"So I got punched for nothing?" Bobby said, his amused tone disbelieving.

"What do you expect?" John snarled. "I got my boy lost in the woods."

"Nothing else," Bobby reassured. "But that don't make it good. Where's the squirt?"

John was sure Bobby had picked up that epithet for Sam off his eldest. "Dropped him off at Jim's. Can't be worrying about him and Dean at the same time."

"Not to mention that Jim'll keep him too up to his ears in busy work to fret over his brother."

"That too," John admitted. "We're burning daylight sat here talking. Should move out."

Bobby passed an assessing gaze over John once more then nodded, "What's the plan?"

"Hunt for Dean in daylight, hunt the dog at dark."

"Good plan."

---

Sam awoke to the delicious smell of bacon and immediately knew he wasn't home. Had his dad or Dean been cooking then it would have been the wail of the smoke alarm that pulled Sam from sleep. He levered himself out from the tangle of sheets and padded down the stairs towards the kitchen. As he expected, Pastor Jim was moving about the room, stirring or shaking the pots and pans. He didn't even turn as Sam entered, just said, "Take a seat. It's almost done," and turned back to his culinary charges.

Sam took a seat at the laid-out table and shifted the ketchup bottle closer to his place, knowing Pastor Jim to be a notorious sauce hog. "Any news yet?"

"Barely time for your father to have got back to the apartment," Pastor Jim said to excuse the lack of news. "I'm sure he'll let you know as soon as he does."

Sam snorted his disbelief just as Pastor Jim placed a plate piled with food in front of Sam and set one down in his own space opposite. Sam wasn't sure he could eat, even as the smell tantalised his nose and set a rumble in his stomach.

The Pastor obviously saw Sam's discomfort and tried to ease it. "Eat! Dean would want you to and I have a list of jobs need doing that I could use a younger pair of hands for so you will need your strength."

Sam dug his fork into the pile of mushrooms and shoveled it up into his mouth, chewing down and swallowing in part to appease Pastor Jim, "What jobs?"

"Church brass needs polishing for a start then I got a new bookcase that I need help putting together." Pastor Jim adhered to the same eating tenets as Dean of combining as many different things as possible onto one forkload. Unlike Sam who kept his food strictly separated. "Attic needs sorting too."

"Ghost?" Sam asked enthusiastically.

"Even worse," Pastor Jim stated solemnly. "Cobwebs! You know what that means."

"Spiders!" Sam gleed, no idea why the religious man could be so scared of arachnids. It wasn't like Blue Earth had a high indigenous population of poisonous spiders. One of Sam's favourite habits was to locate the biggest spider he could and then leave it in a place the Pastor would be sure to go. Dean encouraged the habit even if he left the handling of arachnids to Sam: The 'Little Brother Poison Test' as he called it.

"My position means I must love all God's creatures but I can't help but wish Noah had left a couple off the ark," Pastor Jim shuddered again and set about assembling another medley forkful.

"I wish Noah had kicked out the black dogs," Sam told his eggs morosely.

Pastor Jim reached across the table to grip Sam's shoulder reassuringly, "Your father and Bobby are out there now looking for him. I know no two better trackers." Sam noticed the lack of references to actually finding Dean. Hope only went so far.

Sam poked a tomato across his plate, ploughing it through a barricade of sweetcorn to nestle in the rubble, "God will look after Dean, right?"

Pastor Jim had what Dean had termed his sermon face on, the earnest mixed with compassion. "God sometimes calls people back to him before we think he should. We can only trust in his plan."

"If he calls Dean back then his plan sucks!" Sam vowed, not caring that his words were tantamount to blasphemy.

Pastor Jim just smiled ineffably at Sam and stuck a piece of bacon into his mouth. "I admit I will have some stern words in prayer if that is the case. I know that God will watch over someone as good as Dean whether it is in heaven with your mother or down here with you."

Sam felt the shaming slide of fat tears down his cheeks, "I don't want Dean with Mom, he belongs with me."

Pastor Jim walked around the table to Sam and sat by him, pulling the sobbing nine year old into his side. Sam sunk into the offered comfort even as the Pastor murmured words that Sam didn't hear. Finally it felt like every drop of moisture had been wrung from Sam's shaking frame but he kept clung to Pastor Jim, dry hitches heaving his chest.

Jim ruffled Sam's hair, murmured, "Your breakfast is going cold," and retreated to his side of the table, reaching his hand across the table to squeeze Sam's.

Sam cupped his hands around his orange juice and took a sip to ease the tightness in his throat then he picked at his food, chewing it to mush and swallowing dryly. He noted across the table that Pastor Jim was going the same.

Most of the food was still on the plates when Pastor Jim stood a little stiff from the table, "Those chores aren't doing themselves."

Sam pushed his plate away gratefully and stood, ready to lose himself in the mindless repetitiveness of the tasks.

---

The forest was quiet in the gathering dusk. The diurnal creatures were now seeking a safe spot to slumber through the night while the nocturnal ones were just beginning to rouse. The only noise was the quiet crunch of bronzed leaves underfoot. It was just the beginning of autumn and most leaves still clung to the branches but enough had fallen to limn the path in rust and pile about the bases of the tree.

"This is where Dean should've been at twenty minutes," John stopped dead in the middle of the narrow path. The trees were thick there, only a modicum of the remaining sun filtering through the canopy to the two hunters below.

Bobby bent to examine the ground, it was infrequently traversed which mean the tracks there were were clear. Unfortunately John's boot prints criss-crossed the area, evidence of John's frenetic search. They erased both any sign of his son's smaller feet and the occasional doubt Bobby entertained of John's parenting skills: These weren't the marks of a soldier searching for a comrade but that of a father for a son.

After minutes of searching, Bobby found a heel print too small to be that of the Winchester patriarch. "Dean came this far," It was cold comfort, little else but a starting point.

John crouched down and Bobby looked away as John traced a reverential hand through the mark of where his boy had been. John stood as swiftly and turned to the ongoing track, "Forward then."

It was an eerie and silent progression, broken at regular intervals as both men scoured the forest floor for any sign of the errant young hunter. This time it was John who spotted the broken twig and the toe print in the dirt and he turned to Bobby with a proud grin, "Dean got further out than I thought."

Bobby was about to reply with an honest compliment to the missing boy's skill when he saw what he'd been hoping not to see. In the packed dirt to the right of a path, almost hidden beneath the leaves, was a large, seven-clawed paw print. He toyed briefly with not mentioning it but knew it was inevitable. "John," He said and pointed.

It was all he needed to say. John looked and charcoal storm clouds brewed in a father's face. "That fucker tracked him."

Bobby mutely nodded, there were no plausible words of comfort for this. Black dogs were leagues smarter than their mortal kin and this one had spotted its prey and trailed it, waiting for the opportune moment. The idea of Dean walking the path, unaware of the creature mere feet away was nauseating and made Bobby glad for the hollow of his empty belly.

The men walked onwards, aware of what they were looking for now. Two scant metres on, a single boot print sealed Dean's fate. It was angled to the right and it was all too easy to picture what had happened: Dean, hearing a noise, walked off to the right to investigate and the black dog had claimed another victim. Bobby had had every trust in Dean and that he would mature into a great hunter but a thirteen year old versus a black dog was a sucker's bet.

Bobby's stomach rebelled against its lack of contents and attempted to unload itself, leaving but the bitter burn of bile at the back of his throat.

John stood stoic in the centre of the path, fist clenching and unclenching in maddening rhythm. "This doesn't mean anything," John intoned in a harsh wisp of a voice. "Dean's wily, he's brave, he's smart," John's voice trailed quieter with every syllable until he was mouthing silent to himself.

Bobby gripped John's shoulder in commiseration, not interrupting the grief-forged silence with useless words.

"We find him," John croaked, his eyes wild with the oncoming storm. "And we find that bastard dog."

Bobby nodded, "First we ring Jim. If he's looking after Sam then he needs to know."

John made no move to his phone so Bobby pulled his out and dialled a familiar number.

---

Pastor Jim was in the kitchen pouring two tall glasses of home-made lemonade when the phone rang. He hurried to pick it up before his young charge could hear even though he knew Sam was unlikely to hear from where he was outside mowing the grass. Operation: Distract Sammy was only a success if you ignored the frequent lip wobbles and stifled sobs.

"Pastor Jim, how can I help?" Jim answered the phone in a neutral voice in case it was one of his parishioners.

"Jim, s'Bobby." Just the inflexion of Bobby's voice broke and shattered the Pastor's fragile hopes.

"I'm guessing you called with news," Jim steeled himself, letting one silent prayer that whatever guardian angel guided him through life was watching another charge now. "What is it?"

"We found Dean's tracks… and the dogs." Those two in concurrency with the grim sadness were the nails in the coffin.

The Pastor wished for a moment that he was not a man of god so he could swear with impunity. As it was, he sent another prayer upwards consisting of a single word, 'Please.' He wasn't even sure what he was asking, only one all-encompassing plea to a compassionate deity.

If it had been to allow the littlest Winchester a few minutes more of peace, it failed as Sammy tromped into the kitchen, "Pastor Jim, I've fini…" He froze and hazel-blue eyes narrowed on the phone in a white-knuckled grip. "Dad?" A thousand emotions clashed in the boy's voice: hope and fear being the loudest among them.

"Bobby," Pastor Jim corrected and turned back to the phone. "Sam's here, Let me know about, you know." He didn't need to clarify any further.

"I will. Take care of Sammy." A dial tone greeted Jim's ear.

Jim replaced the phone and turned to the boy watching his every movement like it held the answer to the universe. Jim put a guiding hand on Sam's narrow shoulder and led him through to the sitting room, settling the boy on the couch then perching himself on the low, wooden coffee table, body leant forward. "Bobby said they found Dean's trail and that of the black dog close by."

Sam shook his head in rapid denial, tears already giving a glossy sheen to his eyes, "That means nothing. Dean could take a black dog."

Pastor Jim shook his head and reached to clasp Sam's smaller hands in his weathered own. "Sam, I am sorry. Dean on his own couldn't…"

"He could have run," Sam's words tumbled over themselves, "Or climbed a tree or dug a hole or…"

"He would have sent some signal on the radio by now," Jim cut across Sam's babble. "I am so sorry, Sam."

Sam tugged his hands away and hugged them around himself, curling small and tight on the sofa, "Dean wouldn't leave me."

"I know he would never want to," Pastor Jim twisted around to sit by the boy and looped an arm across shivering shoulders. Sam slid into him, head butting into his side. "He will be in a better place now, a peaceful place."

"Dean wouldn't like a peaceful place. Do you think they play Led Zeppelin in heaven?"

The Pastor rubbed a hand on Sam's arm, "If they didn't before, they will now."

"Will he be able to drive the Impala?"

"Anywhere he wants."

"And burgers for breakfast every morning."

"And no school."

"And no moving around all the time."

"That's right," Pastor Jim answered, knowing his words weren't comforting enough by the way Sam burrowed closer to him and the frequent intersperses of sobs with words.

"Can I go with him?" Sam asked, all innocence in his voice.

"No," Pastor Jim followed his stern words with a gentle hair ruffle. "Dean has to go alone for a while. He will be watching over you."

"Is daddy coming home now?" Sam asked and Jim could understand the boy's wish to see the last member of his family.

"Not yet. Your father has to finish what your brother started."

"Daddy will come home, right?"

"Bobby will make sure he does," Pastor Jim answered and hoped to God that his words were true.

Sam took that as reassurance enough even if he made no effort to move. Two glasses of lemonade grew warm, forgotten in the kitchen as Sam fell asleep in what little comfort he could find.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Through Autumn's Golden Gown

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Disclaimer: **Sam, Dean, their Dad, Bobby, Caleb and Pastor Jim all belong to Kripke and the CW.

**Summary: **An ordinary black dog hunt turns problematic when Dean disappears half-way through. Wee!Chester fic. Some Hurt!Dean and Worried!Everyone Else.

**Author's Notes: **Many thanks to TraSan for the wonderful beta'ing and no, she doesn't really torture ducks in her spare time... Sams and Deans are fair game though.

---

Caleb had never exactly been popular in the hunting community. It was probably that while most hunters used a thrice-blessed blade of pure moon-forged silver, Caleb preferred a hand grenade and while just about every hunter had a small compartment in his car for weapons, Caleb had a small compartment in his car for driving.

So when Caleb went out to bag a black dog and found a bleeding teenager, he wasn't sure who to contact. He could have just left it in the forest, someone else's problem, but given the look of the boy and the chill of the night then that would have been tantamount to murder. Caleb may've been no pacifist but he'd never taken a human life either and didn't intend to break that streak, especially not with a child.

He could have just dropped the boy off at the nearest hospital except it was fairly clear the numerous injuries were black dog inflicted and would need careful watching of the kind only a hunter could do. There was also the fact that Caleb's suspicions might've been wrong and it was a werewolf instead of a black dog. The imprint of teeth were clear on the boy's damaged foot and Caleb never shied from doing what'd be necessary.

In the end, there was no choice at all. There was already the beginning of a fever brewing by the time Caleb got back to his cheap motel room. It was the small hours of the morning so fortunately there was no-one to see him carry a limp form in from the car.

The boy barely stirred as Caleb laid him out on the bed and Caleb sat back to examine his new temporary responsibility. It was coated in thick mud from what Caleb suspected was dark blonde hair down to his boots. Hardly surprisingly when Caleb had hauled the boy out of a small hole in the ground, a hole that'd seemed far too small for its occupant.

It had been sheer luck—Good or bad Caleb hadn't decided yet—that had led to Caleb checking the cubby hole which was clearly too small for the bulk of a black dog to get into. The chewed mess of the boy's left foot said the black dog hadn't let go of its prey without a fight.

Fortunately that had been the worst of the injuries and Caleb set about trying to repair the damage with dozens of tiny stitches. Caleb may have preferred power over finesse when it comes to weaponry but he wasn't dumb enough to apply the same philosophy to medical matters. He wasn't comfortable patching up other people but a quick search had failed to locate the boy's parents and he could hardly wait. Even the hardiest constitution would have trouble with a cold night in a damp, muddy hole.

It took near enough two hours to clean, stitch, bathe in holy water then cover every wound and the only noise the shrimp made was a low moan as the needle dug in deep and the clatter of teeth as his feverish shaking increased. Repair work done, Caleb piled blankets onto the small form and settled back in a chair to think.

His teachers had often said that thinking wasn't something came natural to Caleb but that he could achieve much if he put his mind to it. Chemistry had taught Caleb to achieve big explosions. Physics (and experience) had taught Caleb to keep a fair distance back. Nothing had taught Caleb to deal with children, especially not very sick teenagers hogging his bed.

What did kids eat these days anyway? If he believed the media, they survived on a diet of fat, sugar and caffeine. The brat on the bed hardly looked like a poster child for the fast food generation. If anything, he was a bit skinny. At least that meant he would be low maintenance for however long Caleb had to look after him.

On the other hand, if the kid was being starved at home, Caleb felt he should try to stuff the boy full of food while he could. The question was rhetorical until the boy woke up. Caleb trusted himself to most medical matters but using one of the nasty nasal tubes, even if he'd had one, was far beyond his realm of expertise.

He settled for crunching up an antibiotic and a mild painkiller into a glass of water and tipping it down the boy's throat with only a little spilling down his chin. Finally Caleb settled back in the chair, propped his feet on the bed and fell asleep.

---

It wasn't far off the track that the signs of a scuffle were evident and John desperately scanned the ground for any sign that Dean had come off the winner. Instead he found Dean's dropped gun and two blood-soaked patches of ground. A quick check of the clip revealed all bullets present. He tucked it into his primary holster, moving his own gun to a secondary holster, tucked in the waistband at the back of his jeans.

"Dog went this way," Bobby motioned to a patch of disturbed undergrowth, not needing to point out the drag marks that indicated it had taken a body with it.

John took the safety off Dean's gun and quickly familiarised himself with the different weight, "Then we follow."

It was about two minutes down the track, Bobby leading, that John heard the other hunter's sharp intake of breath, "I'll be damned!"

"What?" John scrambled up to where signs of another struggle painted themselves upon the ground. "Dean?" He asked, unable to make sense of the mess of tracks in the ever-dimming light.

"Dean," Bobby confirmed, a touch of awe in his voice. "Boy musta played dead. He got free," Bobby stepped about the prints, following the sequence of events as if they were playing out in front of him. "He ran off this way."

"He ran?" John swiped at his eyes, denying the tiredness-spun tears and the surge of hope, at least until his boy was back in front of him. "Why the hell you standing there? Follow."

Bobby didn't need telling twice as he set a swift pace following almost invisible signs. The pair of hunters ducked and weaved under branches and through the overgrowth, tracing the frantic flight of a frightened thirteen year old.

John nearly ran into the back of the hunter when Bobby stopped dead. "Why the fuck you stopped?" He snarled.

Bobby just gripped John's shirt and tugged him forwards, pointing downwards to a small hole barely visible, "It stops there."

John crouched by the burrow. It was far too small for John to fit and for John's memory of Dean's size though he supposed desperation could inspire stranger feats. "Dean!" He yelled down into the empty darkness.

"John," John didn't like the regretful note in Bobby's voice. "These marks…" He rubbed blunt fingernails through scrapes in the tunnel wall, "Dean got in but got pulled out."

"Not fucking fair," The words tore out of John, taking his heart with them. "He got away, he fucking got away. The monster doesn't get to have him back."

John was about to continue his tirade when he saw fiery red eyes gleaming in the darkness. John span with the gun and fired a bullet on to a point between the glowing orbs. He didn't wait to see if he hit before firing another and another, stepping closer with every bullet, until Dean's clip was emptied. Then he pulled his own gun out, loomed over the monster's twitching body and emptied that clip too.

"Hmmm," Bobby said, moving up to stand next to John, his own gun at the ready in case John's hadn't been enough.

"That thing killed my boy and all you can say is 'Hmmm'?" John turned on Bobby, raising a fist to strike.

Bobby wasn't willing to be hit this time as he blocked the blow with a hefty forearm and wrapped his fingers around John's arm, "I'm not so sure."

John stumbled back, steadied by Bobby's grip, "What?"

"If the dog got Dean, why was it back here? If it heard us, you know it would have avoided the area. Black dogs like small prey or one at a time." Bobby walked back down to the hole, crouched on his haunches and peered in, flicking a small flashlight around the inside.

John walked back feeling a shaky quiver in his limbs, "If the dog didn't pull Dean out, what did?"

"Now that's the question we need to answer."

---

Pastor Jim faced a dilemma, a dilemma shaped like a nine year old who was currently curled up on his couch. He'd just got off the phone to Bobby who'd updated him on the new situation and the tiny thread of hope for Dean, a thread so thin, so fragile, so likely to be snapped.

He walked through the living room and stared down at the face peeking out of the blankets, calm in sleep but with dried tear tracks coursing thick down his face. Could he give Sam hope at the risk of having it ripped away? Was it better not to know? It was a choice John should've been making but he was focusing on his eldest to the exclusion of anything else as evidenced by the fact it was Bobby keeping him up-to-date.

Just to make the decision harder, hazel-blue eyes opened up to stare at him. "Pastor Jim?" Sam's sleep-muzzied voice piped, "Wha's going on?"

It was the undiminished thread of hope he could see running through Sam that made his decision. "Just got off the phone to Bobby."

"They found Dean?" Sam sat up, blankets pooling down to his waist.

Pastor Jim shook his head, "No, but they have a clearer idea of what happened." He took a deep breath and blurted out the words, trying to temper their severity with a soft expression, "It looks like Dean managed to get away from the black dog and found a hiding place. The problem is that your father and Bobby found evidence that says something pulled Dean out of it. Bobby thinks it was not the black dog as it returned to the site." He caught Sam's fearful start and quickly added, "Your father has killed the black dog."

"Good," Sam stated, an uncommon vicious gleam to the boy's eyes. Pastor Jim couldn't bring himself to worry about that. "So if it wasn't the dog, what took Dean out?"

"Now that is the million dollar question," Pastor Jim said, feeling the weariness of his years. "Bobby called me from the apartment. They are going to get some sleep then start checking all the hospitals in the morning. He said he would ring with an update around midday."

"So what do we do now?" Sam asked, pulling the blankets tight around himself, protection against the chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature.

"We do the hardest thing of all," Pastor Jim answered, tucking the blanket in around the boy. "We wait."

---

Caleb woke to the mutterings of a nightmare-tossed teenager. He peered bleary-eyed at the clock which blinked six a.m. at him and he cursed, his quick shut-eye had lasted all day and night. He was well-used to crashing after a hard night but he rarely had anyone to worry about but himself, not to mention the awkward angle of the chair set an ache in his back and shoulders.

He hurried to check on the boy, the squeaks and moans at least making it clear that he was among the living. The boy's skin was sheen pale except for the red flush across the top of his cheeks and brow. The skin was burning to the touch.

Caleb peeled off the gauze and checked each injury, finding no sign of infection. The fever was easily explainable as the effect of a cold night in the damp woods but it made it no easier to treat.

It was enough to worry Caleb. He hauled out his thermometer and took a reading. 102.6 beeped back at him, dangerous for a man let alone a boy. He headed into the bathroom and got the creaky shower running to a temperature a few degrees above freezing then headed back into the bedroom. He peeled the boy out of mud-splattered clothes down to his boxers and hoisted him up into his arms, wincing at the unfamiliar weight. The boy was no help, just lolled limply with no sign of waking up.

The cold water hit him like a fist as he stepped into the shower and a shiver ran through his body. The boy quivered in his arms, the water making him slippery as an eel. Caleb suspected he was adding bruises to the boy as he kept hold but it was better than him crashing to the tiles.

The water seemed to bring the boy out of his stupor and arms—surprisingly muscled for a teenager—came up to cling to Caleb, a figment of security for a man not present. "Daaad," The words whined out.

Caleb was unsure of how the boy's father sounded or even if he should pretend. The last thing he needed was an armful of a panicking child though so made an educated guess. "Easy, kiddo. Need to bring your temperature down."

The guess was fair enough as the boy stilled in his arms, apart from the fever tremors, "S'hurts."

Caleb winced, "I know, son. Just need to get the fever down then I can give you something." Caleb wasn't sure what in his mobile pharmacy was suitable for teenage boys: the big guns would probably be too strong for him but the milder ones would barely take the edge off. He decided to keep to the milder: better in pain than dead even if it didn't feel like it at the time.

When the lad's damp skin felt cool enough, he stepped out of the shower, his clothes sodden, and tucked the kid back under blankets to sleep. He took a change of clothes into the bathroom and rapidly changed before checking on his becoming less unwelcome guest. He'd faded into sleep but his skin had a healthier cast.

Caleb changed the damp dressings again and sat down on the edge of the bed to think. If he was a father, where'd he look for a missing son? The hospital was a safe bet except there were two in the local area so he couldn't stake out both. Going into a hospital and asking if your son'd been brought in was reasonable enough. Going in and asking if anyone had been asking if their son was there would likely raise more than a few eyebrows.

His best option was to wait for the boy to be cogent enough to give out his name and phone number. He was in need of some supplies, not least his depleted first-aid kit. After reassuring himself the boy was dead to the world, he slunk out the door.

---

Bobby Singer hated pretending to be a doctor. For one thing it meant dressing up in a white coat and smartening up. The white coat always covered his clothes in white fluff and the collar itched and scratched against his neck. For another, it was high-risk. Just one person asking something in medicalese and their cover was blown out of the water. Despite this, he found himself stood next to John for the second time at a reception desk.

"I'm Doctor Fry, this is Doctor Laurie. We're from the CDC." He flashed a badge as fake as the nurse's hair colour. "Animal control caught a rabid dog and we need to check any bites you got for signs of rabies."

John was fidgeting from side to side which wasn't helping Bobby's nerves.

The sun-haired nurse didn't seem to notice as she smiled at the pair, moreso John than Bobby. "I just came on shift," She said, explaining why she could still be so cheerful. "Let me check for you." She tapped away at the computer then looked up. "You're in luck," The nurse said and Bobby's heart surged. "No bites."

Bobby couldn't help the sink of disappointment. Of course no rabid bites would be good news. Next to him, John sighed earning a confused look from the nurse. Bobby hastily cobbled together an explanation, "There was evidence the dog'd bitten someone. We hoped they'd sought medical assistance."

"Oh," The nurse said sadly. "There's another hospital across town, St. Hilda's."

"We've been there," John morosely stated.

"He takes the job very seriously," Bobby excused his partner.

"Ah," The nurse said and her face softened, flirtatious warmth directed at John.

Usually John would have made a token flirtation back but the man was more father than hunter at that moment so he didn't even look at the nurse, just turned to Bobby and said, "Let's go."

Bobby shrugged an apology at the nurse and trailed his friend out of the hospital.

"Any more bright ideas?" John asked as soon as the pair cleared the sliding doors.

"Don't give me that tone," Bobby snarled. "I didn't see you coming up with anything. That was our best shot but not the only. The question is: why'd someone rescue Dean and then not take him to a hospital?"

Bobby could tell John's mind had gone to the worst explanation by the way thunder brewed in dark eyes, "I'll kill him."

"Hold a sec, John," Bobby stated. "May not be that. Mighta just been someone who coulda looked after Dean as well or better than a hospital, someone who recognised the injuries for their cause."

"Another hunter?" John said though he hardly sounded cheerful at the prospect. Sadly hunter too infrequently correlated with good person, too many out there with blood lust.

"That's my best guess. I don't know of any said they were coming this way but I wouldn't rule it out." Bobby ran through a list of those he knew. "We should go back to the apartment and I'll ring those I know and we can wait for whoever got Dean to find us."

John's dour face showed exactly what he thought of that but at this point they hardly had a choice.

---

When Caleb returned to the motel room, arms full of brown bags, he found the boy's bed empty. He took two panicked footsteps before a harsh retching cough from the bathroom reached his ears. He dumped the bags down on the nearest clear surface and hurried into the bathroom.

A sickly smell swirled into his nose as soon as he crossed the threshold. Two wide-open green eyes stared at him then the boy scrabbled to the back of the bathroom, back pressed against the cool tiled wall, "Who the fuck are you?" The strong words were followed by a wracking cough that had the boy curling in on himself, tears stinging his eyes.

"M'name's Caleb," Caleb didn't try to get any closer, giving the boy space much the same as any cornered animal. "I found you out in the forest and patched you up. You better not've torn any of the stitches." He kept his voice light and teasing.

The boy's teeth bit into his lip making it clear that whatever pain relief Caleb had given wasn't enough. "Thanks," The boy grudgingly stated though Caleb noted he didn't offer his own name. "If you let me out, I'll find my own way home from here."

Caleb snorted, "You try and walk out that door and you'll fall flat on your face. I'm amazed you made it to the bathroom." Caleb suspected it'd only been on hands and knees.

"You saying I can't go?" Distrust warred with pain in the boy's unfocused gaze.

"I'm saying it'd be irresponsible of me to patch you up then let you go out and get yourself killed," Caleb answered, more and more sure that this must be a hunter's boy. It'd explain what he'd been doing in the wood and why he didn't whine more about the wounds. "You need to take another antibiotic and I got some painkillers you can take too."

"I'm fine," The boy said even if every line of pain on his face said otherwise.

"Don't be stupid. You think your dad'd want you getting yourself more sick like that?"

"How do you know I got a dad?" The boy stared at Caleb, the hazy gaze still piercing. Caleb just gave him a look and the boy looked abashed. "Stupid question," He muttered.

"Give me your dad's phone number and I'll ring it," Caleb offered.

The boy stared down at his bare knees, "Don't know it." When Caleb looked disbelieving, the boy added, "Dad just changed his cell and I ain't memorised his new number."

"Well, shit," Caleb said. "That makes things tricky. Look, I'll put some soup on, you need to eat then you and me can figure what to do next."

"Soup?" The boy sounded disgusted like the teenager he was.

"Soup," Caleb agreed though he wasn't too happy with it either. "You keep that down and I'll get something nicer. You need some food in you, body needs fuel to mend itself."

The boy lurched up to his feet and Caleb wasn't sure if he was going to make a run for it or head into the kitchen. Either attempt was short-lived as the kid's left foot buckled from the pressure and the boy let out a pain-filled cry, tipping forwards. Caleb darted forward and caught him, sweeping a hand under his knees for a simple lift.

"That was dumb," He told the boy who had his face scrunched to fight back the pain. He carried the boy through to the main room and deposited him at a seat at the table. "I'll see if I can find anything for you to use as a walking stick if you are going to insist on trying to walk. You need to keep the weight off that foot." Caleb poured a glass of water and fished out his painkiller bottles, "What's safe for you to take?"

The boy scanned the pill bottles with a practiced eye and settled on the Percocet, "Can take one of those."

Caleb popped open the lid and took out a pill, putting it next to the water and then placed one of the antibiotics next to it. He left the boy to it as he opened up a can of soup, poured it into a pan and placed it on the hob. The label said chunky vegetable but the contents bore an uncanny resemblance to what the boy had deposited in the toilet. He chose not to mention that as the aim was for the boy to keep the food down.

Five minutes later he put a bowl in front of the boy and himself, adding half a plain of salt to his. "You got a name?"

"David," The boy quickly answered, poking his spoon at what Caleb thought was squash, pushing the block to the bottom of the bowl and watching it bob back up.

"A real name?" Caleb prompted, chuckling as the boy narrowed his eyes. "Fine, David, it is."

Caleb scooped a mouthful in, wishing he'd thought to blow on it first as the soup scorched his cheeks. He opened his mouth to try and suck cooler air in to vent it.

'David' grinned and carefully did his spoonful and blew across it before jammed the spoon in and slurping its contents down.

Caleb stuck the tip of his tongue out in response. "So how do I go about getting you back to your daddy?"

David pondered that, chewing on a mouthful of soup. "I said you just let me go and I'll find my way."

"Ain't happening, kiddo." Caleb served himself a more cautious mouthful. "I may not be a father but I know better than to boot a boy out of my door and hope he becomes a homing pigeon. Especially not with a duff foot."

"I ain't telling you where I live," The boy sounded almost apologetic. Caleb wasn't sure what the big deal was. The boy's dad could likely take care of himself so there was no danger in Caleb knowing his homebase, seeing as it was only likely to be temporary lodgings. He knew better than to push though.

"Then I guess we're at an impasse."

A mouthful of soup went in the boy's mouth and splattered out as another cough racketed through the boy's body. He could see the boy's eyelids drooping, just the effort to stay awake taking its toll. "How about you let me worry about it? What else are adults for?"

The boy just nodded, a sure sign of just how tired he was, and sagged a little in his chair. "Now, we should get you back to bed before you end up with a faceful of soup." David had probably only had three or four mouthfuls but at least that lowered the risk of his stomach rejecting it.

The boy stood, all his weight resting on his good foot. Caleb walked about the table to the boy's bad side and offered an arm to lean on. A halting hop carried the boy to the bed and back under blankets. Caleb picked up the previously discarded t-shirt and jeans, dumping them in the sink and scrubbing the worst of the dirt off before draping them over the heater to dry.

The boy was asleep when Caleb sat himself by the phone, trying to decide who to call first.

---

Pastor Jim's church had been Sam's favourite playground as a boy. The eaves and pews were perfect for hide and seek, the two long aisles good measures for races and the stained glass windows served as ample inspiration for stories. Not to mention an impressive array of hidden weapons.

Sam would never forget the look on the Pastor's Jim the day he'd left them playing safely in the church and come back to find them playing Cowboys and Indians with real guns and knives. Sam felt it was his own fault to making the weapons cabinet easy enough to break into for two bored, devious Winchesters.

It had earned both boys a stern thirty minute lecture on how 'Weapons are not toys.' Dean had barely listened before defending himself by saying he'd had the safety on. Pastor Jim had not been appeased.

Sam had tried to help by pointing out Dean would never accidentally shoot or hurt his brother, his brother was a great marksman. He told Pastor Jim all about how just last week Dean'd re-created William Tell's famous stunt using Sam, an apple and their Dad's favourite knife.

Oddly enough, that hadn't appeased Pastor Jim either. If anything, it had made him angrier. He'd made both boys promise not to go near the weapons unless either Pastor Jim or their dad was there or if a demon was attacking.

Now the church was just cold, empty stone, even with Pastor Jim's warm presence beside him. Going to the church had been Sam's idea and for one reason and one reason only.

At the side of the church was a small table. The table itself was ordinary, available dime a dozen at a thrift store. Plain dark wood, four slightly curved legs, nothing special. What made it special was its burden. Upon its surface, shelves of tealight candles flickered and guttered, the spark of lives that the Pastor's flock were praying for.

Sam picked up a small candle from the unlit stack and cupped it in his hands, examining it carefully for any flaw that could make the difference. The first one was discarded for a short wick, the second for a gouge in the wax until Sam finally passed a candle as perfect enough. He placed it carefully in the central position on the top row.

Next he picked up one of the tapers and examined the existing lights, finding the one with the boldest flame and lighting the taper from that, hoping some of its strength would pass along to the one he was watching. It seemed to work as he placed the lit taper against Dean's wick and the little tealight roared into life, a yellow flame stretching upwards and then settling to a dancing, vivacious fire.

Sam grinned and turned to Pastor Jim. "Did you see that? Dean's lit right off. That's a good sign."

Sam could see Pastor Jim's expression, ready to tell him something comforting but non-committal until he saw the little candle that could, "Well, I'd say someone wants us to know they are watching over your brother."

Sam cupped his hands around the little flame and smiled as the yellow expanded out to his fingers. Sam briefly entertained the idea that Dean had been reincarnated as the tiny flame. "Can I stay here until Dean's back?"

The Pastor shook his head, "You need a good night's sleep. Whatever comes, your dad or your brother'll need someone to look after them so you need to be top of your game."

"Can we stay a bit longer?" Sam bargained, not tearing his eyes from the display.

"Of course," Pastor Jim put a hand on the boy's shoulder and together they held vigil.

---

It was only pointing out to John that he stunk worse than the pariah of the skunk community that persuaded him into the shower, leaving Bobby to make his phone calls in peace.

Bobby's tight-strung nerves wouldn't have coped with John's frustration each time one of his calls drew a blank. Bobby's nerves were barely coping on their own. It seemed the hunting community had chosen today to participate in some complex game of Chinese whispers as each call directed him to someone 'in the area' who would turn out to be nowhere near but claimed to know someone who was. Bobby's temper was two rings away from explosion.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," He finally barked at a hunter called Matheson who was 'sure' Caleb was in the area which would be a recipe for disaster in the unlikely event it was true. He hung up the phone just as John emerged from the shower, naked hope on his face. Bobby just shook his head and watched John's face come close to crumpling.

"I should get back to Sammy," The acknowledgment of his youngest son's existence was the closest John'd ever come to admitting defeat.

Bobby found his position reversed from being the one offering John an ice cold dose of reality to being the one clinging to hope. "We may as well stay one more night. Give Dean a chance to find us."

John rolled his eyes, "Knew you were soft. I'll go grab us a bite to eat. Burger good?"

"Good enough," Bobby replied.

---

When Caleb thought about it, there was only one obvious person to try and he picked up the phone a little hesitant and dialled.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse, Ellen speaking," came the voice down the line.

"Ellen, it's Caleb," Caleb immediately found himself on the other end of a dial tone. He had expected that.

He cursed and dialled again. At Ellen's greeting, he rapidly said, "Wait, please don't hang up."

"If you are trying to persuade me to un-bar you, I'll tell you straight that it ain't happening," Ellen's southern burr came clear down the line.

"Jeez, one little accident," Caleb muttered.

"You blew out half the roadhouse wall!"

"I didn't," Caleb protested. "That idiot that didn't listen to what I said about blast radius did." Before Ellen could hang up again, Caleb added, "Anyway it's not about that, I need some help."

A throaty laugh greeted that statement, "The cheek of you never fails to amaze me."

"It's not for me, least not really."

"Hmm," Ellen sounded intrigued. "You got my attention so start talking."

"I was on the trail of a black dog in the forest, followed some tracks to a hole. Thought it was too small for the dog and I was right, went to bag a dog and got a boy instead." Caleb said the words in a rush, trying to get them out before Ellen could dismiss him.

"Werewolf?" Ellen asked regretfully.

"Nope, just a mostly ordinary kid. Guess he scurried in to get away from the dog."

"So?" Ellen asked.

"So I hauled him out…"

"Caleb," Ellen half-growled. "You telling me you got a kid in that scuzzy motel room with you?"

Caleb was glad Ellen finally twigged to the problem, "Yup and I think he's a hunter's get so I'd rather track down his father before his father tracks down me."

"No shit," Ellen drawled. "Fine, drop the kid off here and I'll look after him."

"No!" Caleb recoiled from that.

"Caleb, you are barely capable of looking after yourself. I'm damn well not letting you mess up with a kid."

Caleb remembered why he hated talking to Ellen, kept having to remind himself he wasn't five years old anymore. "Still not gonna happen. I think the kid's father was based local and the boy's a wildcat, even injured. I don't stand a chance of persuading him into my car and I ain't risking terrorising him by hauling him into it."

"So what do you want me to do?" Ellen asked. "You know you can't keep him if no-one shows up to claim him for ten days."

"It's already been three," Caleb glanced to the bed where the boy stirred in restless slumber. "I just want to get him back to his dad. I wondered if you heard of any hunters misplaced a son?"

"Would've mentioned already if I had," Ellen chided. "But I'll keep an ear out. You tried Bobby Singer? He tends to have his finger on the pulse."

Caleb cleared his throat, "Me 'n' Bobby had a bit of a falling out, I doubt he'll help me."

He could almost hear Ellen roll her eyes, "What of his did you blow up?" Before Caleb could raise a protest, Ellen continued, "Nevermind. It's still worth a try in case Bobby likes the boy's father better 'n' you. There's only so many hunters with brats, even fewer that still get to be around them. What's he look like?"

"A kid?" Caleb ventured before peering over to where a head poked out from a mound of blankets. "Erm, darkish blonde hair, might be brown, short cut." He stepped over and carefully opened the boy's eyelids, trying not to disturb him too much. "Very green eyes. I'd guess he's in his early teens. Damn brave for a kid."

Ellen's laughter rung down the line, "Getting broody, Caleb? He don't sound like any of the boys I've met but I know some of the hunters keep their young'uns clear of the roadhouse and other hunters. Wish I had the same option with my Jo somedays."

Caleb didn't know what to say to that, well-aware that he was one of the hunters that Ellen'd rather keep her daughter away from. "I'd best get to ringing Bobby," Caleb said with the dread of a man marching to the gallows.

"Do that," Ellen chuckled. "And let me know when you find his dad. If you can't, the roadhouse offer is still open. Who knows, maybe I'll even let you stay too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Through Autumn's Golden Gown

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Disclaimer: **Sam, Dean, their Dad, Bobby, Caleb and Pastor Jim all belong to Kripke and the CW.

**Summary: **An ordinary black dog hunt turns problematic when Dean disappears half-way through. Wee!Chester fic. Some Hurt!Dean and Worried!Everyone Else.

**Author's notes:** This is the last part. Hope you all enjoyed the ride. Thanks again to TraSan for the wonderful beta. Feedback, whether positive or negative, is always welcome!

---

When Bobby's phone rang, he allowed himself a brief buzz of excitement. John, meanwhile, didn't even look up from writing in his journal. A quick check of the display revealed the name 'Caleb' and Bobby was tempted not to answer except that Caleb's name had been mentioned during the mammoth game of phone tag.

"Bobby Singer," he growled down the line.

"It's Caleb," The weapon-mad hunter sounded understandable nervous. The last time Bobby parted from Caleb, he'd told the younger hunter he'd shoot him if he ever saw him again. Admittedly that wasn't the first time Bobby had parted from a fellow hunter so but it was one of the first he'd meant. Jasper had been a good dog and it'd been a bad way to go.

"What do you want?" Bobby said in a voice that threatened evisceration with a blunt knife if this wasn't good. Bobby was proud of managing to convey that exact threat in so few words.

The message came loud and clear to Caleb as the man cleared his throat and coughed a little nervous, "Erm, you know anyone misplaced a kid?"

Bobby felt like someone had sunk a meaty fist dead-square into his gut, "What's it look like?" He asked, voice rough. He glanced to John to see if the man had taken any note of Bobby's deliberately vague question. John's head was still buried in the journal though his hand flicked out towards the unopened bottle of whiskey standing sentry on the table before returning back to the pages of his work.

"It?" Caleb quizzed. "Well, it's in its early teens, dark blonde hair, green eyes, helluva mouth on him. Had a run in with Cujo."

"I think I might know where it belongs," Bobby choked out, feeling his throat constrict. "Where are you?"

That got John's attention but just for the man to scowl and ask, "Lining up your next job already?" Bobby ignored John, unwilling to get John's hopes up only to shatter them again, even if the description fit Dean to a T thus far.

"Promise not to shoot me?" Caleb jested then in all seriousness added, "I'm at the Grey Buzzard motel, room three twelve." Bobby wasn't surprised that Caleb was being helpful, Dean had that effect on people—He half wondered if he should try using holy water on the boy at some point.

"What sort of condition is it in?" Bobby asked, jaw clenching and heart racing.

"Slightly chewed," Caleb responded. "And what's with all the 'it's? Oh!" Caleb said and Bobby could almost hear Caleb's smile. "Is the owner with you?"

"I believe so," Bobby glowered at his innocent phone.

"Thank god!" There was honest relief in Caleb's voice. "The kid's alright. His left foot is a bit of a mess but I've stitched it up. Be a lot better if he'd quit trying to walk on it. Had a fever but I brought it down."

"You the one that retrieved it?" Bobby asked, unsure himself of why he kept the pretence up now he was certain it was the oldest Winchester boy with Caleb.

"Yep, damn lucky I spotted him as small as that hole was. You cleared up the canine problem?"

"It's taken care of." Bobby flinched from the memory of John's desolation as he fired bullet after bullet into the body of the beast he thought had claimed the life of his boy. God forbid he ever have to see that again.

"You or the owner?"

"The owner," Bobby said in a grim voice.

There was a long pause down the line. "I woulda told you straight away if I'd know the boy was one of yours." Caleb said, pre-emptively defending himself.

"I know," Bobby said, finding it surprisingly easy to allow Caleb some leeway. It was the fellowship of the Dean, a select group who watched out for the boy, a group that on a good day included John and even rarer included Dean himself.

"The kid didn't help. Gave me a fake name, refused to tell me where he was staying, couldn't remember his dad's cell phone number."

Bobby was sure of the root of Dean's obtuse behaviour, "There's a smaller model available." He hoped Caleb caught the gist.

"A little brother? That explains everything. Had one of those myself once upon a time." Bobby thought Caleb's voice sounded wistful. "Your runt is fast asleep at the moment. How long will it take you to get here?"

Bobby darted his eyes to John, sure the other hunter would notice this, "We're the other side of town, it'd be a good twenty minutes."

True to Bobby's guess, John immediately looked over, "Another hunter in town?"

Bobby felt guilty for holding John off but knew it'd be best to explain all at once, "One, Caleb."

"Okay, I'll let the boy know. See you soon, Bobby," Caleb answered.

Bobby pressed down on the end call and turned back to John, "That was Caleb."

"So I gathered," John's voice was calm as long as you ignored the crack in it or the tension in his hands squeezing the pen almost to crushing point.

Bobby joined John at the table, holding his gaze, "I think he's got Dean. At least he found a kid fitting Dean's description in the right location."

John didn't form any words for a good minute, his mouth opening and closing and tears trickling ignored down tanned cheeks. "Dean," The word was an atheist's rejoicing prayer. "What are we waiting for?"

Bobby found himself grinning as euphoria swept his veins, "Nothing at all. He's in a motel across town. Take my truck?"

John shook his head, "Dean'll want to see the Impala. I'm probably gonna end up giving him that car." John's grin was infectious and he murmured, "My boy," with pride and affection.

"He's one in a million, that's for sure," Bobby agreed. "Let's go get him."

---

Caleb felt a little guilty as he shook 'David's' shoulder, "Hey kiddo, wake up."

'David' opened bleary hazel-green eyes and pulled back a little. "Hey," his mouse-quiet voice said.

"Just thought you'd like to know; your dad and Bobby Singer are on their way here," Caleb delighting in the casual way he imparted the information.

The boy bolted upright, almost nutting Caleb, "Really?"

"Really," Caleb promised. "Might be an idea for you to get ready to go." He held out the mostly dry clothes, still warm from the heater.

The boy dressed with the rapidity of one well-used to it, tugging on his jeans with just a mild wince as the denim scraped against bandages. "You spoke to my dad?" He quizzed, practically bouncing.

"I spoke to Bobby who said your dad was with him." Or rather the veteran hunter had implied as much.

"What about Sammy?" 'David' asked and promptly slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Bobby mentioned you had a sibling but it didn't seem like he was with them. Someone could be looking after him."

"Probably," The boy said though an undercurrent of worry ran through his young voice. The boy eyed his boots warily, looking to his feet.

"Don't worry about them," Caleb said. "I doubt your father'll let your feet touch ground once he gets here."

The words were supposed to be reassuring but the boy looked trouble. "Dad'll be mad. I shouldn't have fallen for the black dog's tricks."

Caleb ruffled the kid's hair, "If Bobby's reaction is any guide, your father will be far too glad to see you living to have any thought of scolding you."

"You don't know my dad," 'David' said, though the edge of worry was gone.

"How's the pain?" Caleb inquired.

"It's fine," The boy quickly said and Caleb just as quickly didn't believe a word of it. He went to the cabinet and fished out a couple more painkillers along with a glass of water, frowning down at the boy until he obligingly swallowed them.

"Just don't put anymore weight on that foot. You mess my handiwork and your father will probably get mad at me, not you. Want me to carry you to the couch?" Caleb offered, knowing the couch was that bit closer to the door.

'David' glanced between the door and couch, independence warring with the terrible need to see his father. "Yeah, alright," He finally said, his tone implying he was somehow doing Caleb a favour.

Caleb scooped up the boy and carried him over, minimising the period when the boy had to show weakness.

'David' sat upright and fixed his eyes on the door, watching it as his right foot tapped a rhythm.

Caleb felt unaccountably nervous for what would just be Bobby and another man walking in, stealing away the boy and leaving. Perhaps, Caleb mused on reflection, that was the problem.

It was just ten minutes later that the noise of an engine turning into the motel parking lot was audible. The boy leant towards the door and jittered, "Dad brought the Impala?"

"Your dad drives an Impala?" Caleb asked, impressed. He wasn't much of a car fan but he appreciated a sweet motor.

"'67, Cherry black," The boy stated, not peeling his eyes from the door. Caleb had a feeling the lad could recite the exact spec.

Caleb counted the heartbeats until there was a loud knock on the door. Caleb pointed a finger at the boy, admonishing him to stay on the couch then opened the door a crack. Bobby's face was visible and another man behind him, younger but aged by worry. He bore little resemblance to the boy inside and Caleb felt a stab of worry that this'd been for nothing and it was another man's boy on Caleb's couch, "Bobby."

"Caleb," The mechanic's voice held surprising warmth. "Going to let us in?"

It was now or never so Caleb nudged the door open further, revealing the whole of the room.

The man with Bobby briefly noted Caleb then his eyes slid straight past to the couch. The expression on his face was unmistakable relief, "Dean!"

Caleb stepped out of the way to avoid being stampeded as the man rushed to the couch and seized the boy—Dean, Caleb reminded himself—up into a bone-crushingly tight hug before tugging him back and staring him in the eyes, "Don't you ever scare me like that again, Deano." The man gently shook the slight figure clinging to him, "You hear me? Don't you ever do that to me again."

Dean crushed himself into his father, muttering denials into a shoulder damp with tears.

The father stood, one thickly muscled arm keeping his boy pressed to him; the other was offered to Caleb, "John Winchester. This my boy, Dean."

"Caleb Hawkins," Caleb took the proffered hand and shook it firmly, keen to make a good impression. "Glad to reunite you with your boy. Want a coffee?" He offered.

"We should start towards Jim's," John turned down the offer. "Sammy'll want to see his brother." Dean'd been rock-still clung to his dad but his head shot up at his brother's name. "Sam's fine," His father reassured. "Pastor Jim is taking care of him." Dean nodded and dropped back against his father.

"Guess this is goodbye then," Caleb felt a pang of regret and had to remind himself it was just a kid.

Dean's head lifted up towards him and his father's head followed. "You are welcome to come with us to Pastor Jim's," The man offered. "He's a damn good cook and he'll have rooms to spare. I owe you for taking care of my boy."

"He was no bother," Caleb dismissed the invitation.

"No bother?" Bobby said with a chuckle. "He really must've been sick."

The kid raised his head dozily off his father's shoulder and flipped Bobby off. Caleb waited for the explosion. Bobby just laughed and returned the gesture leaving Caleb almost gaping. The fact that veteran, venerable hunter Bobby Singer had a soft spot for a kid would be gold dust in most of the hunter haunts.

John just snorted and turned to Caleb, "I mean it. Bother or not, I still owe you at least a thousand beers."

Caleb turned to Bobby, expecting the older hunter to be scowling but his eyes were fixed on Dean with an oddly dopey grin on his face. "Who can turn down an offer like that?"

"Good," John said. "Bobby, you want a lift back to your truck then follow us from there?"

"I can drive from here," Caleb said. "Got my car outside."

John shook his head, "Want to talk to you. Bobby can drop you back here later." The fact that John'd never come back to this place again was clear. Caleb wasn't sure whether to feel nervous about the promised talk.

He gathered up a couple of day's worth of clothes and stowed them in a small bag, taking a cut-down version of his arsenal. No sense going naked.

John and Bobby were chatting when he finished though Dean looked to have fallen asleep at his perch. John broke off to nod to him, "Ready to go?"

They moved out with military precision, Bobby taking shotgun as John laid his son out across the backseat. Caleb slid in the side, ending up with Dean's head resting on his thigh.

They dropped Bobby off at a small apartment building and Caleb wondered if he should move to the front but Dean seemed comfortable and Caleb was loathe to move him. John didn't seem to object and Dean was fully asleep a mere ten minutes after Bobby left.

"So you got my boy out of the woods?" John asked, his voice deceptively casual and his eyes not turning for the road, even if Caleb felt the man glanced in his rear view more than necessary. He suspected the eyes weren't checking on him.

"Yeah. I must have been out hunting the same black dog as you. Spotted the tracks and found your boy by accident."

"He alright?"

Caleb fumbled for words, his usual clinical diagnosis seemed inappropriate for talking to a father. He tried his best to find a middle ground without sounding incompetent. "His foot was chewed up but I cleaned it out with holy water and put him on antibiotics, I've got the rest of the course in my duffel for him. The rest of the bites are superficial. Had a nasty fever from his hours in the woods but I brought it down so he's not in any danger there though you might have to keep an eye on it."

"Good," John said. "Found the place that Deano holed up in, damn small. Nearly too damn small."

"Your boy would've found another place, he's sharp." The words were mostly false reassurance. Sharp or not, it was sheer luck that had got the boy away from the jaws of the dog.

"Perhaps," John said. "So how did you get into hunting?"

Caleb blinked at the sudden change of topic and thought over what version of the truth to tell. "Monster got my little brother, never figured out what."

John nodded sagely, the story was probably akin to most other hunters that hadn't gotten into it for the bloodlust. "Demon got my wife," He said after a pause. There was a solemn moment as both men reflected on their losses. "How do you know Bobby?"

"Worked together once," Caleb reflected guiltily. "Didn't end well."

"Lost the victim?" John asked with a modicum of sympathy.

"Accidentally killed Bobby's dog," Caleb admitted.

John stifled a laugh, "Damn, how'd that happen?"

"I lobbed a grenade after the beast, Jasper decided it was a good time to play fetch."

John winced, "Nasty."

"Aye, could've been worse if the dog had made it back to us. Bobby told me he'd shoot me if he saw me again. I'm just waiting."

"Think you earned your way into his good books," John raised his eyes to the rear view mirror and Caleb could tell he was watching Dean.

"Or he's just waiting 'til Dean won't hear the shot."

"Could be," John shrugged nonchalantly. "You been a hunter your whole life?"

Caleb shook his head, "Joined the military for a while out of school. Was one of my fellow soldiers, guy from N'orleans, who told me that maybe the monster I'd seen hadn't just been a nightmare. Finished my tour of duty, came home and started my new one."

"What branch?"

"Air force."

"Jarhead," John replied and Caleb knew he hadn't missed the mark with the man's military bearing. "Left when Dean was born to be around for Mary." John's eyes flicked up the rear view again, "My boy okay?"

"He's fast asleep. Don't think he slept right when you weren't there."

"He'll sleep better when Sammy's there," Dean murmured in his sleep at the mere mention of his little brother's name. "Those two act like twins half the time."

"Know what that's like," Caleb replied, a flash of memory bringing his brother's face back to total clarity.

"Sorry 'bout your brother," John said sincerely.

"Sorry about your wife," Caleb replied, equally sincere. "You found the bastard yet?"

John shook his head, "Trail gone cold. As soon as it raises its head, I'll have it."

"If you need another pair of hands…" Caleb offered, not entirely sure why he did and a good part of him hoped the older man didn't take him up on his offer.

"S'my fight," John turned down the offer. "But thanks. It'll be a good five and a half hours to Jim's, get some kip if you want." When Caleb made to object, John added, "Dean can wear me out at the best of times, let alone when he's sick."

"He was no bother," Caleb patted the boy's head.

"Didn't say he was a bother, said he was exhausting."

Caleb grinned and laid his head against the door. In minutes he fell into the first restful sleep since retrieving a mud-coated boy from the woods.

---

Pastor Jim had been dreading the moment his phone would ring so when the simple, off-white device began its innocuous notification, he hesitated to pick it up. Denying the truth never made it less true and so Jim picked up the receiver, "Pastor Jim."

"Jim, it's Bobby." The buoyant tone sent hope into the Pastor.

"Yes?" The one word contained a dozen questions.

"We're on our way there," Jim decided he needed a stern word to Bobby about drawing out conversations.

"We?" He said in the stern voice that had most of his parishioners worrying about hell and damnation if they dared disobey.

"Me, John, another hunter called Caleb… and Dean," Sheer joy bled through on Bobby's last word.

"Dean," Jim breathed out the word. "He is alive."

"Just slightly chewed," Bobby said. "Caleb is the one got him out. Never liked him much 'til now."

"I will forgive him all seven of the deadlies if he brings Dean back to us. You sure he is alright?"

"Saw him with my own two eyes. Bit subdued, hung off John like a sweater most of the time but he'll bounce back."

"Thank God!" Pastor Jim exclaimed, "I will wake Sam. He was convinced his brother would be coming home, I guess I should have listened."

"I best get back to the road."

"On the phone while you are driving?" Jim chided.

"You'd rather I hadn't rung you?" Bobby pointed out.

"Of course not," Pastor Jim didn't mind his own hypocrisy. "I will see you soon." Pastor Jim hung up the phone and sent a prayer of thanks to the God he never lost faith in, even if he sometimes wondered about the madness to the method.

He fixed a mug of hot chocolate, tiny white marshmallows frothing the surface, and then went into Sam and Dean's room. Sam was twisted and tangled in the blankets, fists bunching the cover tight even in sleep. Jim put the drink at the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.

Eyes more hazel than blue in the dim light instantly opened and regarded the Pastor warily, "Dean?"

Jim was not so cruel as to draw out the telling as Bobby had to him, "Your dad and Bobby are bringing him here. He's alive and mostly well."

Pastor Jim had an instant armful of sobbing, relieved Sam, hiccups and sniffles rendering words incomprehensible.

The man of god just rubbed the child's back, repeated the words 'Dean's alive' over and over as much to himself as to Sammy.

"When'll they get here?" Sam asked, swiping the evidence of his tears away.

"It will be a good five hours," Jim admitted.

"Good," Sam said and Jim arched a silver eyebrow. "We need to get the room ready and start Dean's favourite meal cooking. We should do banana muffins and choc chip cookies." Sam was talking faster and faster like a fountain allowed to bubble again.

"Then I guess it is a good thing my kitchen is stocked." The hunter creed: expect the worst but wait for the best. "Lasagne with real garlic bread?"

"With the mushrooms," Sam said. "Dean likes it with the mushrooms."

"He does?" The Pastor asked in surprise, the teenager had never mentioned that. "I guess we best make it with mushrooms. Join me in the kitchen when you are done getting dressed."

As the Pastor had expected, his shoes had barely touched the kitchen tiles than Sam's footsteps thundered down the stairs and Sam was there, dressed in a t-shirt the Pastor thought was his brother's and the hot chocolate mug clutched in his hands.

The hours passed in a flurry of slicing and dicing, kneading and crushing until the kitchen was heady with a mix of rich aromas. Moments before the kitchen timer dinged, the welcoming purr of the Impala's engine came from outside. Jim had expected Sam to dash straight for the door so it was a surprise to find the boy hovering in the kitchen doorway.

"Dean really is alright, isn't he?" Sam addressed Jim, front teeth biting nervously down into his bottom lip.

Jim ruffled a hand through Sam's hair, a gesture hard to resist given the child's long mop. "Bobby says so and you know we can trust him. Come on, let's go see your brother."

A knock on the door came mere moments before Jim got to it and he threw open the door. John stood close there with Dean wrapped up in his arms, head tilted against John's broad shoulder. Just behind him was a man Jim didn't recognise with close-cropped military hair and at least four weapons concealed that Jim could identify at a glance.

Sam ghosted behind Jim, staring up at his brother. "Why's he so still?"

"He's just sleeping," John replied, his lack of sleep clear in the gruff texture of his voice. "He's had a rough few days." Haven't we all, Pastor Jim thought to himself and privately agreed with Sam's assessment: Dean motionless was disturbing.

"But we made lasagne," Sam protested his brother's sleep. "And real garlic bread and cookies and muffins and a cake and…" John glanced to Jim and arched a bushy brow to which Jim replied with a hapless shrug.

"How much has he eaten?" John called the question back to the other man who was still hovering in the house doorway, half-in and half-out, unwilling to intrude on the family scene.

"Just a few mouthfuls of soup," The man answered. "He's been out of it quite a bit and then fell asleep soon after I got him to eat."

"Sounds like he could use a good meal," John concluded and gently jostled his slumbering son. "Deano, wake up. Come on."

The first sign of Dean's return to consciousness was the twitch of his nose and then hazel-green eyes flicking open. He stared a little muzzily around and the Pastor breathed a sigh of relief at the awareness there. "Jim's?" He asked.

Sam scrabbled over to his father and tilted up to reach his brother, small hands patting his brother's body to remind himself his brother was real, "Dean!"

"Not s'loud, Sammy," Dean grumbled though there was little annoyance in the voice. "Down?" He asked his father.

"Keep the weight off that foot," John and the other hunter chimed in unison then John tilted Dean around to lower him slowly to the ground, keeping his arm wrapped about the boy's waist to keep him supported. Pastor Jim could see a swathe of bandages wrapping Dean's left foot and made a note to himself to check the repair work over once they were done eating.

Sam batted around his family like a moth at a campfire, finally nudging himself in next to his brother's bad side, "Lean on me."

"Can't lean on you," Dean retorted. "Too small."

"Am not! Pastor Jim said he thought I'd be taller than you some day."

"Pastor Jim lied."

"Pastor Jim isn't allowed to lie, the bible says so."

"Bible says you can't drink either but the sloe gin don't drink itself every year," Dean stated and Pastor Jim bit back a laugh. The three Winchesters made an awkward progression towards the homely smell of the kitchen, both uninjured men trying to support Dean at the same time and neither giving an inch.

The Pastor made his way towards the outsider, "Pastor Jim Murphy." He offered out his palm.

"Caleb Hawkins," The man replied and shook the hand firmly. "They always like that?" He nodded to the still audible noise of the Winchester progression.

"Oh no," Jim replied. "Usually Dean is much worse. He's not at his best at the moment. Come on in, I've heard people call my lasagne the best in the state and between us, I think me and Sammy cooked enough food to feed the five thousand twice over."

Caleb took a step forward and lingered there, "Maybe I should head off. I'm not needed here."

"Nonsense," Pastor Jim argued. "I don't know about John but I know I owe you so I need you to sit down, eat your own body weight in food and keep John and Sammy from mothering poor Dean to death and back. Not to mention I will need another line of defence when Bobby gets here and tries to steal all the cookies."

Caleb shot the pastor a disbelieving look, obviously he had never been informed of Bobby's rampant cookie thievery. It was not right for a man to go uneducated on such an important matter. "Can't turn down an offer like that," He said as he trailed Pastor Jim into the kitchen.

The Winchester boys were already seated with Sam having pulled his chair right up close to Dean's. John was doling giant portions of the lasagne up onto plates and one piece of garlic bread was already missing, a suspicious greasy smear at the corner of John's mouth giving clue to its whereabouts. "Hope you don't mind," He gestured to Jim with a mince-splattered spoon.

"Of course not, just leave some for the rest of us." Jim helped John with the serving, placing hunks of garlic bread onto two of the plates and ferrying them over to the spots in front of Dean and Caleb.

The roar of Bobby's truck was audible even through the hubbub of chatter in the kitchen and the grizzled hunter didn't even bother knocking, just bustled in through the door left ajar. "Hope you've left some of that food for me." Bobby said, dumping down a couple of bags full of the Winchester's worldly possessions before plopping himself down to a seat at the table and snitching a piece of Dean's garlic bread.

Dean responded by stuffing the remaining piece into his mouth and Pastor Jim had to admire his capacity even as Dean's jaw worked to try and work the bread into small enough pieces to swallow. It didn't go unnoticed, at least by Jim, that the boy was having to put a lot more effort than normal into that simple action.

Jim carried the next two plates to the table for Sam and Bobby and immediately took one of the pieces of garlic bread off Bobby's plate and placed it on Dean's. Dean smirked and stuck a tongue littered with mushy bread out at Bobby.

"Dean," Sam whined. "That's disgusting. Chew it, don't view it."

Dean responded to his little brother by flicking a pea at him though the aim was off and it ended up landing back on Sam's plate. Sam immediately set out trying to identify the invading pea and evict it. Pastor Jim rolled his eyes and took a seat as John brought over the last two plates.

"Dean, care to say grace?" He addressed the boy whose fork was poised halfway to his mouth.

Dean solemnly put down the fork and folded his hands. Pastor Jim mentally prepared himself for whatever would come next, sure that it was nothing he could put into next Sunday's sermon. "Good food. Good meat. Good Lord! Let's eat." Dean rattled the words off and dug his fork into the pile.

Pastor Jim was too glad to see the spark of life back in the family Winchester to object so he just joined in the eating and made a mental note to have a word with Dean later, glad that there would be a later to have.


End file.
